


a feather, bringing kingdoms to their knees

by somnicordia (hihazuki)



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22794463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihazuki/pseuds/somnicordia
Summary: There is a raw beauty in the way he contorts his body, how he battles the rope that hurtles and spins with open contempt for the laws of physics. A snarling vengeance in the glint of the heels that winds silk effortlessly to its will. Lucifer thinks of an angel burning in a starless, night sky.
Relationships: Lucifer/Sandalphon (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 100





	a feather, bringing kingdoms to their knees

**Author's Note:**

> i don’t even remember how this spawned. when you’re horny, everything turns into a haze. much thanks to the writing crew for the beta; grey, ellie, cai for keeping the plot _(gasp, plot?! in a stripper fic?!)_ in check.
> 
> title taken from sleeping at last's turning page.
> 
> here's the [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZTRhPsjwzM) that i spammed a million times while writing this. its jammin

“Uriel,” Lucifer asks, eyes wide. “You said this is a bar?”

“It’s more than just a simple bar.” The man, dressed in a loose white button-down, squeezes out of the moderately sized SUV he drove Lucifer and the others in, and it seems to breathe a sigh of relief when he’s successfully extricated himself from its tiny doors. “They’ve got the best drinks in the country. Oh, don’t forget dancers and performances.”

“Performances?” Lucifer’s eyebrow arcs. “What kind of performances?”

“Oh, you know,” Uriel responds, distracted. He’s checking his pockets, and Lucifer is tempted to do the same. “Of the adult kind.”

It takes awhile for the information to sink in. Lucifer opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Well, Uriel had certainly omitted _that_ detail.

Most of the bars he had frequented were sports bars or cocktail lounges within hotels he unwinds at after work or during business trips. He thinks of that one music bar he visited, with the lovely Steinway grand piano. He’s considering going back again, if it weren’t all the way in England.

Perhaps when he visits his brother.

He looks across the street at sleek, black lettering spelling out the word _Canaan_. It stands out starkly beneath bright yellow lamps casting sinister shadows on the forefront. The building isn’t that tall, but Lucifer feels strangely small.

“Hey,” Michael says, clasping his arm gently. “If you feel uncomfortable, we could leave.” Her tone changes drastically when she glares at Uriel. “I told you he isn’t suited for such base lifestyles. Why did you insist we come here in the first place?”

“Michael, he just turned 27.” Uriel rolls his eyes. “He spent his whole life without ever stepping into a strip club. I just want to give him the chance to experience it for himself.”

Lucifer adjusts his tie, loosens up his collar. It still feels a little warm. Is it okay for him to leave his suitcase in the car? They’re parked in open parking a block away from the location, but he rarely comes to this side of town, much less in the evening.

Gabriel picks up on his consternation. “I know this place looks a little intimidating, but you don’t have to worry. Our belongings will be safe. By the end of the night, you probably won’t even remember a thing!”

“Gabriel!” Michael admonishes. “We’re not going to encourage overly reckless behavior. He has a stakeholder meeting tomorrow afternoon.”

Ah, yes. The meeting. He’s already prepared the presentation and notes, memorized key points and assembled templates for his peers and fellow shareholders. He's even gone over the itinerary twice over for a number of committee members flying in and anticipated their arrival down to the last second. He’s more prepared than he can ever be, but —as with most things— it takes only a single night’s negligence to bring it all toppling down.

When Uriel had invited Lucifer out after work that day to celebrate his birthday, Lucifer had expected something modest, like dinner at a nice restaurant, or perhaps a winery. Perhaps he would indulge in an extra bout of drinking. It was a day of celebration, after all; even if he doesn’t normally order as many rounds as Uriel, he was willing to spread the cheer and indulge.

In hindsight, he probably should have asked where they were going. He did say it’s a bar, and this looks like a bar, but…

A _cabaret?_

“If one is content within their place of comfort, I find no need to uproot them without causing needless apprehension.” Raphael folds his arms. “Simply say the word, Lucifer, and we shall be on our way.”

It’s not like he hasn’t heard of it before. He sees the genre from time to time, in between the channels that his father would flick through during family dinners, in the news. He remembers stumbling upon it in his eldest brother’s room even, when the man had commed Lucifer to fetch something for him on the way downstairs.

What he’d found, instead, were a few brochures laying haphazardly on his desk, featuring scantily clad men and women and gaudy lettering.

Lucifer had pointedly ignored it.

It’s not like he loathes the idea personally. He just never understood the idea of exhibiting one's body for everyone to ogle without shame. How can it attract anyone but the most salacious kind of people? The thought of it is enough to turn Lucifer’s stomach.

“I’ll be fine.” Lucifer smiles. Surely it can’t be that much different from any other bar. As long as he keeps his distance, he should be fine. Besides, he’s never been one to reject an opportunity to broaden his horizons when it’s presented to him — a family trait that’s passed down even to the unlikeliest son. “I’ll follow your lead, Uriel.”

“I knew you’d see it my way.” Uriel winks, then guides them around the bend, past the long queue of partygoers. He strides all the way to the front, giving a curt nod to the bouncer who lets him and his companions through without so much as another glance.

Fascinating. Lucifer wasn’t aware that Uriel had connections in this place.

Through the club doors is another world. The walls pulse with too much life, strobe lights streaking across the room, overlapping generously with a dozen other lights. It sounds like the whole city is crammed into this space, their cheering rendering any kind of small conversation pointless.

Someone bumps into him, mumbling an incoherent apology, and it reasserts him back to reality.

As his eyes roam for the nearest exit, he chances upon the stage. A man dances with abandon, feather boa slithering around his body like a snake, abs glistening beneath the hot lights. He turns around to reveal a tattoo on his lower back, dark with jagged edges and lean lines, and the brilliant reception of the crowd only spurs him on.

One moment, his pants are on.

The next, he’s in a G-string.

Lucifer feels like he might lose consciousness.

Gabriel's hand on his bicep is a saving grace as she leads him away. He can hear the rush of blood through his ears, his heart thudding in his chest. He thought he had already steeled himself for it, despite the desperately short notice.

He was a fool. No amount of preparation will ever stand up to seeing the dancers in flesh, and music so deafening it threatens to pierce through the core of his body. At least now they’re far enough that the ground no longer shakes and the licentious display is behind him.

For now, at least.

Gabriel squeezes his arm lightly. “It’s okay, Lucifer. I was like you the first time I went to a strip club, too. It’s a lot to take in.”

“I’m sorry.” Lucifer admits. “I don’t mean to be a burden.”

“Don’t call yourself that — you’re never a burden to us. We’ll take care of you, alright?” The woman’s smile is gentle, matronly. Already, he feels his nerves loosening, even if just barely. “Here, let’s get you something that’ll help you relax.”

Tucked in the back of the club is a bar decked out in dark wood and leather, hosting far less clientele and noise. The bartender who presides over it, with his long, ashen hair tied up in a loose ponytail, is already conversing with Uriel. The man glances at Lucifer quizzically as he approaches.

“Uriel, this is…. your friend?” The man says slowly.

“More like my boss, but we’ve known each other for a while now, so yeah, you could say that.” Uriel laughs. “It’s actually his birthday today!”

“Oh.” The bartender says, “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” Lucifer bows his head, slightly unnerved by how the man takes him in, with eyes that seem sharp and unfocused at the same time. He sees Uriel beckoning for Lucifer to sit next to him, and he quickly obliges.

“So here’s how it’s going to go. You need to take at least two shots.” Uriel tells him in a voice that leaves little room for argument.

Lucifer purses his lips. “I do?”

“Trust me,” Uriel brings up his own shot, waving it slightly for emphasis. “It’s not enough to get you drunk, but it’ll help you enjoy the night a bit better.” With nothing else but a bright grin, he goes bottoms up as Lucifer watches mutely.

He weighs his choices, which doesn’t take very long. He looks at Gabriel, who nods at him. The bartender is still waiting for him expectantly when Lucifer makes up his mind.

“I’ll have a martini, neat and extra dry.” Lucifer relents.

“And the gin?”

“Your very best, please.” — _and most potent,_ Lucifer adds silently as he closes his eyes, feeling a hint of a headache curling in the back of his head.

He was never fond of too much noise. His brother had brought him along to a concert once, when they were young and impressionable. Lucifer had fled within two seconds of entering the venue, the exploding clap of drums and sudden blast of synthetic music too much for him to handle. His brother found him half an hour later, curled up into a ball in one of the dirty bathroom stalls.

He’s come a long way since then, but it doesn’t mean he’s grown to like it. Sighing, he considers laying his head down for a brief respite when he hears a telltale clink in front of him. Blinking, he sees it; a crystal glass, gin garnished with a single glacé cherry.

The first thing that comes to mind is how blissfully humble and pedestrian it looks. But then again, this is just a cabaret, not the craft gin bars that he's used to. There’s no reason to expect anything more.

He brings it to his lips, completely uncomprehending when the rush of flavor comes at him all at once. Intricate notes of citrus, bitter juniper, and spice collide in exquisite harmony, his tongue numbing and tingling with an incredibly long, complex finish. He looks up at the bartender to see him shelving a very distinctive decanter.

“You sell _Watenshi_?” Lucifer asks, dumbfounded. He had expected a Tanqueray, or perhaps even a Bombay Sapphire at best. There are too many questions — _how did they even acquire this? What kind of bar is this? How much?_ — but no words come out.

Uriel guffaws. “I _did_ tell you that this place has the best drinks in town, right? Sariel, this one’s on me!”

Watenshi, made from the angel’s share of a Japanese gin which would normally be lost to evaporation, but preserved using pioneering distillation processes. The result is a gin of unparalleled intensity and complexity, an expression of refined elegance which has only been attainable by the finest single malts and significantly aged cognacs.

He did ask for the very best they had to offer, but he certainly did not expect the world’s most exclusive.

“We’re partnered with Avatar.” The bartender says, by way of explanation.

“I… wasn’t aware that they affiliated themselves with anyone.” Avatar's Distillery. Could it be…? “Uriel, did you know about this?”

“Yep! Awesome, right? One of their staff has connections with their Master Distiller, so Canaan gets samples every now and then.” Uriel replies easily, as though he were just talking about common house liquor, and not one of only six bottles of pedigree gin that could be released to any country per year. “Don’t go telling the other big boys, though. Don’t wanna get the media all up in their faces now.”

“Hopefully it’s not because you want to hog it all to yourself.” Raphael inserts calmly.

“Raph!” Uriel protests, and what ensues next is a largely one-sided struggle, with Uriel trying in vain to crawl under the skin of a perpetually unperturbed Raphael.

What a surprising development. It seems he has to look into this cabaret a little more than he thought. He files this note away in the back of his mind, for later.

The bartender is quiet, focused on something — is he shelling peanuts? Lucifer doesn’t remember hearing another client order that.

When he’s done, he slides it to Lucifer. “It’ll taste better with a snack.”

Oh. Lucifer wasn’t expecting that. “Thank you, um...”

“Sariel.” His words are succinct, but Lucifer doesn’t feel any aversion coming from him. Rather, he just doesn’t look like a very talkative type.

As Uriel bickers with Raphael and the women chat with each other, Lucifer takes the time to study the bartender in front of him, who strikes him as nothing but peculiar.

To his knowledge, a bartender possesses some modicum of affability. And if not, they would need to, if they were to conform to the social expectations of the club. And yet, here he is, tending quietly behind the counter. He seldom speaks unless talked to; but when he does, his words are slow and pronounced, as though he's speaking a foreign language. Lucifer watches him take orders and mix drinks, but very little else. He stands by the wayside, content to observe and attend to customers without stepping into their bubble.

It’s almost like he’s just...present out of sheer happenstance, shoulders hunched in a space that’s a tad too small for him. His expression is glazed, a world of distance yawning in blue-gray eyes.

“Thank you, Sariel.” Lucifer pauses, weighing the odds. Before he could say anything, the crowd breaks out, signalling the end of the performance, and everything else is drowned.

 _“Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to tonight’s feast,”_ The man onstage rasps, voice breathless and hoarse from exertion, but it doesn't stop the crowd from going wild. He drinks it all in like it’s everything he needs to breathe. _“It’s time to start the hedonism!”_

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

"Phew, that was one hell of an opening act." Uriel says once Sariel leaves to tend to another client. "They couldn't have picked a better dancer to start off the night."

"How insufferable." Michael shouts over the clamor. "Anagenesis already left the stage! Why are people still screaming?"

"It's the pheromones, Mika! He’s called an incubus for a reason," Gabriel giggles, and then perks up when the DJ announces the next performance. "Oh, this should be her! My Mercury!"

Much to Lucifer's surprise, a woman is the one that emerges from the curtains this time, her shapely hourglass figure accentuated by flowing, translucent fabric, like water trailing behind her. Flowers are woven into golden hair, skin porcelain where soft, blue lights reflect like a kaleidoscope. The grace in which she moves makes her look like a goddess personified.

The surprise must have shown on his face, because Uriel grins at him. “Are you surprised? Canaan is a co-ed strip club; the only one of its kind in the area.”

Lucifer didn’t expect to learn more that night. He’d thought this would be a regular cabaret, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. As he watches her glide around the stage in an aura that’s entirely different to the previous dancer (much less sexually aggressive, more tender and nuanced) he realizes that they are all in control of their own image.

Despite himself, he's curious to see the other dancers.

“I’m going to go find us an open lounge.” Michael tells Lucifer, rising from her stool. “Gabriel looks like she might lose her sanity any second now if we don’t sit closer to the stage.”

“Aww, Mika! You're so sweet!” Gabriel has rouge in her cheeks, laughter on the edge of her tongue. She looks positively, joyously inebriated as she stumbles off to join Michael in her search.

Lucifer glances at his watch. It’s already far past nine, but it seems things are only now getting started. Uriel had left soon after to join Michael and Gabriel and make sure they didn’t _‘wreak havoc on some poor unsuspecting souls’_. Lucifer doesn't like judging others, but he has to admit that Uriel has a point; Gabriel and Michael are already plenty fearsome on their own, but their might combined may be enough to topple even the nation’s hierarchy.

He makes small talk with Raphael for some time, and it doesn’t take long for him to notice the slight tapping of Raphael’s foot and the deepening crease in his brow. He tells him to go — make sure that Uriel himself doesn’t get in trouble. The man means well, but they both know his enthusiasm would, at times, inadvertently complicate things instead of resolving them. The worry doesn’t disappear entirely from Raphael’s face, but Lucifer tells him he’ll be right there waiting for them, and sends him off.

He's scrolling through work emails when someone chooses that moment to slide into the vacated stool beside him, letting out a noise of unabashed gratification as he sinks into plush leather.

Sariel’s voice doesn’t change, and neither does his expression. But something in him visibly lights up. “The usual?”

“Yep,” the man drawls, popping the _p_ at the end. “You’re the best, Sarry.”

Lucifer takes in high cheekbones, an angular jaw, eyes sharp and red like demonsbane. He’s dressed in a loosely tied silk bathrobe, low enough that it exposes his cleavage. His hair is mussed just so, and there's a languid slyness in his demeanor that captivates as well as perplexes Lucifer.

Anagenesis.

When his eyes meet Lucifer’s, his expression morphs. His face —so briefly that Lucifer has no way of knowing it happened or not — opening in shock, before smoothing out in careful neutrality. “Hm? What do we have here?”

“Yes?” Lucifer says warily, leaning back as Anagenesis leans closer to inspect him. He thinks he’s imagining it when his eyes flick downwards, lingering. “May I help you?”

His eyes are feline in nature. Lucifer feels that if the lights are to switch out, the carmine red of those eyes would turn to moon-like disks. “Incredible. Looks like he wasn’t just pulling my dick.”

He’s close, far too close for comfort. There is no sense of reservation when he takes Lucifer in with the slightest hint of fangs, like a viper to a pulse. The intense scrutiny reminds Lucifer, uncomfortably, of someone else. He fixes his glasses, making sure it’s still there. “I beg your pardon?”

“You look like you got some free time on your hands.” He purrs, seduction spilling through silken words. His voice is smooth, almost syrupy — bee's venom drenched in honey. “How about we get to know each other a bit? A little...body on body exhibition?”

“I’m with company.” Lucifer replies in haste, coming down to brass tacks. His eyes look pointedly at the hand placed innocuously on his thigh. “Do you mind…?”

“Mm, sorry, that was rude of me,” The man laughs, leaving his personal bubble. But before Lucifer could breathe a sigh of relief, he takes Lucifer’s knuckle and brings it to his lips. “Anagenesis, at your service.”

It must be a combination of the alcohol, because Lucifer’s mind goes unnaturally blank as he registers the warm touch. “Oh.”

“Lucifer,” he hears Michael say, presence piercing through the thickened fog of his conscious. “I found a spot; Uriel and Raphael are saving it for us right now. We should go and join them.” The bewilderment when she sees Lucifer’s hand is subtle, but it grows increasingly more conspicuous when she travels up the arm of whom it is held by. “You’re that stripper. Aren't you supposed to be backstage?”

Anagenesis barks a laugh. “Not one to mince words, are we? Just what I like in a woman. What’s your name?”

Michael narrows her eyes, no doubt calculating how to best respond to such a crude inquiry.

 _“Mika!”_ Gabriel whines from behind her, a hint of a slur in her normally cool and breezy voice. “What are you waiting for? Let's get him and _gooo!”_

Anagenesis looks like he’s just caught a particularly tasty morsel. “ _Mika_ , huh? Cute name.”

“Don’t call me that.” She snaps, before turning her attention to Lucifer. “Let’s go. Can you walk?”

“I should be fine.” Lucifer reassures her, standing up with little affair. The ground looks a little distant for his liking, but at least he’s still aware of his surroundings. He glances apologetically at Anagenesis. “Um…”

Anagenesis waves, nonchalant. “Don’t mind me, sweet prince. I’m just here to let off some steam. It's exhausting to keep it going for so long, you know?” Then he grins, and it's cheshire-like. “Unless you'd prefer to spend some more time with darling ol' me? I can take care of you as well as your lovely lady friend here. I've got a thing for blue eyed albinos, so I'll make a special concession just for you."

"Absolutely not!" Michael cuts in, all teeth and fury. Before Lucifer could say anything, he's being dragged off.

Anagenesis' laugh is loud and voracious. "Here's hoping you snagged some good seats! The best view means everything for this next round.”

That's the last thing Lucifer hears before they dive into the center. He quickly loses sight of the bar —his only oasis in this ineffable mass of squirming, writhing bodies. Michael’s grip on his arm is steadfast, but he can feel the slight indent of her nails where it digs lightly into his skin.

“Are you angry, Michael?” Lucifer dares to ask.

“No,” she says. The stride continues like a moment, stretching into infinity — then she gives. “Not really. That lecher aside… I’m simply worried about you.” They sidestep a handful of rowdy patrons who look like they had a little too much to drink.

Lucifer makes a wide berth. “About me?”

Michael looks at him like she doesn’t know how to react. “I don’t want to sound overbearing, but you stand out. Please exercise some caution, for your own sake.”

Lucifer blinks. Has he really been that careless? He looks around, seeing for the first time why the crowd lets them pass with little fanfare. He’s not as inconspicuous as he thought. Strange, he’d been doing nothing but minding his own business.

The eyes on his back don’t let up when he catches up to the rest of them, who have already made themselves comfortable in the lounge, with its smooth velvet seats and ebony table.

“Uh oh.” Uriel straightens a little when he catches sight of them. “Why does Michael look even more pissed than usual?”

“She’s mad ‘cos she found Anagenesis hitting on Lucifer,” Gabriel sighs dramatically. “Such a mother hen.”

“Whoa, Anagenesis?” Uriel blurts, knees knocking under the table. It shudders with his surprise. “Didn’t think he’d go prowling about after a show like _that_. You know him?”

“No…”

“Maybe he knows you?” Raphael asks.

“I think I would remember meeting someone like him.” Lucifer recalls the blatant lust on his face as he moves with an almost single-minded purpose, and the albino represses a shudder.

What a disconcerting man.

“A fan of yours, then. I mean, who wouldn’t fall for a doe-eyed multimillionaire with gorgeous hair the color of snow and a gentle personality?” Gabriel exaggerates by sighing dreamily. “He’s every woman’s dream man ...or a man’s dream, considering what just happened.”

“Or an easy target.” Michael crosses her arms. At the prolonged silence, she looks up. “What? It’s a valid concern.”

Uriel sighs. “You’re always such a killjoy, Michael. Can people not have a bit of fun without having sinister motives?”

“I think a little discretion is allowed, yes? Lucifer isn’t just any other person, after all.”

And perhaps nothing is more telling of that fact than the slim fitted suit he came in with straight after work —a blend of virgin wool and mohair— and garnet red tie. He’d loosened up the collar before he came in, but it seems it wasn’t enough. “I suppose my attire isn’t exactly appropriate for this kind of occasion, is it?”

Uriel laughs, brazen. “It’s not about your attire — you’d stand out even if you wore a burlap sack.”

Lucifer sighs. “And here I thought the glasses would help…”

“Oh, dear Lucifer.” Gabriel giggles. “This is what I love so dearly about you.”

“Keep in mind that this joint is pretty upscale.” Uriel cracks his knuckles. “The patrons are pretty good about minding their own business.”

“The same couldn’t be said for the dancers, it seems.”

Uriel looks at her like she’s grown another head. “Michael, they’re strippers. It’s their job; these things are supposed to happen. If Lucifer isn’t interested, he’ll tell them.”

Michael has that tick in her eye that suggests she’s not backing down, and Lucifer doesn’t have to be completely sober to realize that if he doesn’t do something about it, they’re going to be at each other's throats for the rest of the night.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be going anywhere." Lucifer puts in hastily. "And Uriel, thank you for bringing me here. There’s still much I have yet to process, so I hope you don’t mind if I impose on the rest of you for now.”

Uriel looks a little put off, but the lights blink out, and the DJ announces a name as Lucifer thinks of what else to say to appease the larger man. He feels Gabriel sliding into the booth, pulling Michael in with her.

They make enough room for Lucifer on the edge, who is grateful he doesn’t have to scoot his way deeper. In this state, he doesn’t trust himself to not spill drinks over them all.

A fresnel beam blooms to life in the center of the stage, a gentle scattering of soft light. The theater is so aggressively dark that Lucifer’s eyes have nowhere else to look, and he braces himself for an explosion of sound.

Seconds pass, and it doesn’t come. Instead, the music mists to life in a down-tempo ballad, drums exhaling more than they are hitting, airless and sultry.

Something descends from somewhere above — fabric the color of swansdown. On it, a man emerges from shadow, coiled tightly in its embrace, and the universe holds its breath. Not even the immense cheering that suddenly erupts from an enlightened audience can detract from the fact that the world only comprises of this mysterious man and his hooded face.

“Wait, isn’t that—” he vaguely hears Uriel say, but anything else is lost to the aerial promenade.

Lucifer has never seen anyone move like that. For the first time that night, his eyes follow him with a heady trance that brings a butterfly to nectar. Soaring as if he is born in the air. Diving as if he would sooner die than walk. With every swing of his limb, every twist of his body, he leaves motes of dust in his wake. The air is charged in great arcs as the line snaps taut and he is speared back into gravity’s eulogy. He is Icarus, burning brighter the closer he climbs to the sun.

Then he falls, he tumbles and plummets, and Lucifer doesn’t think twice when he surges to his feet, to do something, anything—

The man catches himself upside down, hood falling from his head, revealing chestnut brown hair, the long column of his throat, eyes closed in rapturous bliss. The silk wraps lovingly up and around his body, spills and flows from his back, a pair of white wings caressing the ground.

Lucifer’s breath is caught in his throat.

The moment shatters when his eyes blaze open, fire in his eyes and steel in his hands. He pulls, latching firmly onto the fabric, heaving himself up with limbs powerful in contention. The fabric cinches around his waist and shoulders like liquid chains; but he is stronger, spiraling and in control.

There is a raw beauty in the way he contorts his body, how he battles the rope that hurtles and spins with open contempt for the laws of physics. A snarling vengeance in the glint of the heels that winds silk effortlessly to its will. Lucifer thinks of an angel burning in a starless, night sky.

“ —fer? Lucifer?”

Lucifer blinks, grounding himself. He looks down to see the four of them staring up at him in various degrees of wonder and confusion.

“You’re standing.” Raphael informs him.

He has a fervent hope that the heat flushing on his cheeks is a result of the alcohol, but he’s not so sure anymore. Regardless, he sits down, brushing down the wrinkles on his tunic. Gabriel hands him a glass of water, and he gulps it down in heavy mouthfuls.

The second the man slides to the floor and his heels touch the ground, the atmosphere shifts, beat transforming. It’s the same song, but gone is the luxurious steam of sensual melody — massive synths and trap flourishes take over. Now the room is injected with a mantric urgency, and the spectators respond in kind. In the heat of the moment, Lucifer thinks he sees bills flying in the air.

He decides he’s not imagining it when someone had the gall to lean on the stage to tuck a very noticeable wad of bills into the hem of his pants as the man accommodates, even welcomes another; and another, with a poise none the worse for the wear. It appalls him, and Raphael picks up on it when he leans close, startling Lucifer.

"This is normal." Raphael says. "It's a compliment to the dancer. The more euphoric the performance, the more stimulated the crowd. This is their duty as a dancer."

Come to think of it, he remembers seeing green tucked in the waistband of Anagenesis' pants. He'd thought nothing of it until now. But he remembers how they're thrown, how so many are on the floor, presumably for the dancers to pick up afterwards. "It seems quite… degrading. Surely there must be a better way to express gratitude?"

"The moral compasses we're used to don't apply here." Michael says, sighing. "I don't agree with it either, but I've heard that places like this don't pay their dancers, and tips are all they have to go by, regardless of the method."

The blatant legal repercussions of that cloud Lucifer's mind, and if he'd been more sober, he would have the sound of mind to argue. As it stands, all he manages to say is: "That's not fair."

"It is what it is." Gabriel pats her cheek in despondence. "A shame that strippers are only independent contractors. But that means all of us have our own part to play, including you!" Her mood takes a full 180 swing as she shoves a folded dollar bill into his hand, eyes glinting. She gestures to the stage, where the man is… no longer on.

Lucifer's eyes dart all over before it finds its target. He’s on the far end of the stage now, legs swinging over as he lands gracefully on the ground — the same ground as everyone else. The noise level is uproarious now; Lucifer is certain he’ll hear the aftereffects of this until tomorrow morning. The audience seems to relish in how the dancer didn’t exit the stage like all his predecessors, their attention drawn to where he flits his way through the crowd, touching faces and brushing shoulders. A deity, blessing all who come to worship and praise.

"I — I can't," Lucifer says quickly, his confidence splintering. "This is a little too much for me. Why is he in the crowd?"

"It's a special service. Some of them make rounds like this at some point during their performance, where excitement is at its peak. Everyone's hoping he chooses them."

"Chooses them?" Lucifer asks, perplexed. "For what?"

Uriel grins. "You'll see." Then, to his profound horror, Uriel pulls out his own wad of bills and tries to catch his attention.

It turns out he doesn't have to; the man's route is calculated just so that he would eventually round up on the stage again. As it so happens, their lounge is right next to the stage. If fate wills, theirs will be the last area he inevitably visits.

"Uriel." Michael warns, but it's too late.

Lucifer stands up, excuse on the edge of his tongue. He doesn't know what he was going to say, where he was going to go. Perhaps the bathroom, the classic excuse. An urgent phone call. Maybe some fresh air.

He will never find out, because the next moment he turns away from his booth, there is a collision. A warm body, and a gasp. Time slows when he sees the other person start to fall back, unable to persevere against the pull of gravity from a misstep on razor-sharp heels. Lucifer reaches out, doesn't think when he catches him from kissing the ground.

Chaos erupts from all around him, but he is deaf to it.

Now that he’s closer and existing on the same plane of life, Lucifer can see his facial features; understated, yet elegant, with a slightly upturned nose, and small yet plump lips swept over with tinted gloss. The crimson that people normally find on lips are instead in his eyes — where Anagenesis’ red is dark and lethal, his red burns slowly like candlewick, soft and glowing.

Up close like this, he can only think of one thing."You're beautiful."

Eyes blow wide, mouth falling open. "Huh?"

Someone clears their throat, and Lucifer looks up to see his friends giving him very pointed looks. Michael has her face in her hands. Uriel looks gobsmacked, as does Raphael, although the latter is much subtler at it. Gabriel, for one, looks overjoyed.

He registers the riotous hooting then, how suddenly he draws the attention of virtually every single person in the room, even the spotlight. All eyes are on him... and the man whose waist he is still holding.

"I'm sorry!" He leaps back, making sure there is a good amount of space in between them. "I didn't mean to bump into you. I hope I didn't hurt you."

It takes only a moment for the man to recover his composure, his surprise replaced with wry mirth. "Hurt me? The only thing you hurt was my pride.” His voice is loud and clear, rippling through the room with a reverberating resonance. He waits for a lull in the booing and razzing before he continues. “Were you so eager to leave before I came?"

"That's — that's not what I intended." Lucifer stammers, heat rising to his cheeks. He’s been put in the spot many a time before, but most of them had been trite, underhanded tactics in business politics. He’s had enough experience to know how to effectively counter it. This, on the other hand... "If that was the message you received, then I apologize. I was simply..." What was he doing? The man isn't wrong — Lucifer had been trying to escape. "I'm sorry."

The man tilts his head, staring at him with something akin to curiosity in his gaze. Then he cracks a smile as he steps forward. "Don't be. I appreciate the compliment, as bizarre as the delivery was." A small, amused huff. "It's not every day I get swept off my feet like that."

He doesn't wait to hear a reply before greeting the rest of the table. Lucifer stands there frozen, unable to budge even if he wanted to. It's as though the dancer had cast a spell on Lucifer, and he is lost to it.

The memory of it rewinds like a cassette tape — the way he winked at Lucifer as he passed, how he murmured the words in his ear as though he'd shared a secret meant only for him.

Are all the dancers like this? Their charm is almost impossible to resist. He has to give compliments to whomever hired such alluring homme fatals. He hasn't recalled a time in his life that he's rendered little more than a flustered mess.

When he glances back at the table, he sees Uriel beckoning the dancer over, gesturing him to lean down. The dancer obliges, bangs falling over his face as he listens to whatever Uriel had found the need to whisper to him. He nods once, then twice, and shoots a furtive glance at Lucifer. There's a brief flash of green, gone almost as fast as it came, and then the dancer straightens.

"I hear it's your birthday," The dancer says, the curve of his lips a picture of practiced charisma. "How about I show you a good time? I'll make it worth your while."

He wants to be irritated at Uriel, but he can't bring himself to rebuke the other man now; not when the dancer is addressing him directly and the cheering once again gets louder. The pressure coming from every direction is relentless, cornering him into saying _yes_ and _only_ yes, but the words are stuck in his throat. The alcohol has muddled his brain and he can't think straight. He doesn't know what he wants, his emotions are a mess. Is it too much to ask for some peace and quiet?

As if he read Lucifer's mind, the man closes the gap between them easily, taking Lucifer's hand in his. "Follow me."

His words are soft yet deafening, and it's the only thing bouncing around in his mind as he is lead away from the pit, from the monkeyish chaos that his table has devolved into as Michael lashes out at Uriel, who merely laughs and begs for mercy, with Gabriel and Raphael attempting to end the squabble. _Attempting_ being the keyword.

They go past a sign that says VIP room, with the man nodding at the bouncer before slipping in, guiding Lucifer in with him.

Immediately, the atmosphere releases its oppressive grasp, and sweet clarity seeps through the cracks of his addled mind. He observes the room he now finds himself in, with its smooth couches and mood lighting, and a beat that no longer overpowers the room.

There are perhaps two or three other patrons there, a blissful sign that Lucifer is not completely alone, but they are all quiet in their own corners of the room.

When he sees how they are being attended to, he looks away.

The sound of a chair being pulled out draws his attention, and he realizes belatedly it's for him when the man deposits him on it, though not unkindly.

“Um,” Lucifer says eloquently, as the shorter male effortlessly hikes his leg up, settling himself carefully on Lucifer’s lap.

The brunet chuckles, breathy and low as he winds long arms around his neck. “Relax, it’s just a lap dance. There’s no sex involved.”

If that statement was meant to calm Lucifer down, it does so only marginally. How can he, when this man is basically sitting in his lap, breathing on him? His frame is smaller, more petite. Lucifer gets a distinct feeling that he can gather him entirely into his arms if he tried.

His sense of touch is aflame, and all the places they are making contact burns. Where fingertips touch, goosebumps flare to life. Surely he can feel how fast Lucifer’s heart is thundering.

“Tell me what you like,” he whispers, rubbing a finger in circles on his jaw, hips moving in a way that Lucifer tries _very_ hard not to think about.

“Coffee.” Lucifer blurts out. “I like coffee.”

And just like that, the ministrations pause, and the man goes deathly still in his lap.

The moment extends.

Lucifer can’t see his face, but he feels the slight tremors in his shoulders. Just as worry starts to cloud his mind, the man throws his head back, a bright, unfiltered laugh escaping him. It draws the gaze of the other patrons, startled from their own sessions.

“Are...are you okay?” Lucifer asks, inwardly sighing in relief when the man shows him enough mercy to lean back and put distance between their chests. He’s waving away the attention, hand covering his face as he tries to curb his laughter.

“So do I,” He strains out, voice muffled from behind his hand, “But that wasn’t what I meant.”

Oh.

When he removes his hand from his face, there’s a trace of moisture around his eyes. “You… you really haven’t been to a strip club, have you? When your friend told me, I thought for sure he must be joking.”

Feeling the heat flow to his cheeks, he bows his head, telling the man all he needs to know.

But no words come, no ridicule. Nothing but the gentle touch of fingers tracing the underside of his jaw before it stops just short of his chin. He lets it lift his head up as he looks into amused, but warm eyes.

“Don’t be ashamed. You don’t look like you belong in a place like this, anyway.” He leans back in, and Lucifer is captured once more. “Your friends seem quite persistent.”

Lucifer focuses on breathing. “They’re kind people. We’ve known each other for some time now, and I think they worry for me sometimes— oh.”

Skilled hands find themselves in his hair, scratching it pleasantly as warm breath ghosts on exposed skin. Goosebumps erupt from where the warmth dissipates, his dangling hands grabbing at empty air. A single glance at the other patrons show them engaged in mutual skinship, hands grabbing where they may.

Even if it’s entirely in confidence, for Lucifer, it’s out of the question.

“What’s your name?” he breathes, hands sliding on his shoulders, and _oh,_ Lucifer wants to squirm.

“Lucifer,” he gasps out, his intent to stay hands free short lived. He flails for an anchor, and it lands on the other’s waist, bringing to startling attention how close their hips are.

 _“Lucifer,”_ he murmurs, his voice low and resonant. The way he exhales the last syllable, like melted butter, makes him tense up and muscles turn taut. “And here I thought you looked familiar. Who knew that the state senator’s son would show his face here?”

And there it is. The inevitable mention of his father, a reminder that no matter how much time and effort he devoted into fostering his own business, his own life, the shadow of his family’s legacy will continue to haunt him for a long time to come.

Without realizing it, his grip tightens on his waist. It seems like the other notices, his hands faltering.

“Did I strike a nerve? I’m sorry.” He croons, not sounding very sorry at all. “Let me make it up to you.” His hands trail downwards, and for once, Lucifer understands it before it happens.

With a movement that’s faster than anything else he’s exhibited the past couple hours, he covers the other man’s hands with his own, stopping him just short from pulling down his own zipper.

“What the—”

“You don’t have to do that.” Lucifer says quietly. “It’s alright. Please don’t force yourself to do this.”

He doesn’t understand the play of emotions that flit across the man’s face then. But before he could say anything, the man removes his hand from Lucifer’s grasp, using his shoulder as a prop to lift himself from his lap. Lucifer watches wordlessly, letting the chill from the sudden loss of heat so close to him ebb languidly through his body.

He feels the sudden urge to call out his name, anything, but he realizes he knows nothing at all about this person, who is now adjusting his pants, brushing a hand through his hair in an attempt to smooth it out.

Then he starts chuckling, as if he’s recalling a particularly funny inside joke. “ _‘Force myself’_ , you say… from you, who looks like he wants to be anywhere but here?”

Lucifer opens his mouth, but no words come out. 

The man cracks his neck, disappointment stark in his frown. “I won’t claim to know anything about you, nor am I in a position to lecture you about your ways, but allow me to give you a word of advice. I'm just a no-name stripper whose opinions have little to no bearing to someone of your social standing,” he says, walking across the threshold of the room. “But regardless, it may be in your best interest to practice some agency in your life. Try to resist being easily cajoled by other people around you. Take charge of your own actions, and you’ll find yourself struggling a lot less.”

How strange, to be lectured at a time like this. If Michael or the others were here, surely they would not let this stand.

Then it comes to him like a thunderclap — this is exactly what he’s talking about. Lucifer's first reaction hadn't been about how he'd himself react, but how his coworkers would deal with it in his stead. 

It amazes him, how this man can simply say such things without fear. He’s never met anyone who had the audacity to speak to him like that. None who knew him for even half as long as the other four had dared to speak outright, knowing who he is and what he stands for.

Who is he? How is he everything that Lucifer is not, everything he yearns to be? His poise, his charm, as well as his performance, and everyone else's before him — those are rehearsed to a polished perfection. But this kind of brutal honesty is fresh, something that hits Lucifer like a speeding truck. 

Before he knows it, he’s running his mouth. “Can I see you again?”

The man’s forehead creases, and he takes a moment to respond. “Sorry, I don’t meet with clients outside of the club.”

“No,” Lucifer’s voice falters, but he regains his footing. “No, I’ll come here.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lucifer shakes his head. “I’d like to see you again.”

The man scoffs. “Do you even know who I am? I’ve never heard you say my name once.”

 _Ah_. He’s right. Lucifer feels like deflating, and his arms turn leaden. There’s no way around it. He can express his desires all he wants, but when he doesn’t even know the bare prerequisites, it’s pointless. There’s no reason for this man to ever consider entertaining him.

Lucifer recalls how ecstatic the audience was when he made his entrance, even before he revealed himself. It's the kind of fervent recognition that comes from only the most fiercely devoted. It's entirely too possible that he's the most popular dancer in the club, alongside Anagenesis. 

Among all of those who had vied for the dancer's attention that night, Lucifer had miraculously won the luck of the draw.

He doesn't even know the other's name. 

“Solace.” He says finally, much to Lucifer’s shock. There’s a slight twitch of the lips when he turns away. “That’s what they call me. In any case, good luck finding me.”

With a single wave, he walks away until he turns the corner, and all that’s left is Lucifer and a name.

_Solace._

**Author's Note:**

> fav react:
> 
> lineart by [ razz](https://twitter.com/ranzzinza)! he's a swell guy.


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